


Get a little action in

by belmanoir



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:24:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/pseuds/belmanoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"He insulted Canada," Kowalski says sulkily. "So I kicked over his chair."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get a little action in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sionnain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sionnain/gifts).



> who wanted Ray/Ray and a bar fight. Thanks to Sonia and catwalksalone for letting me use "Sick Burn" Churchill.

Ray's on his way home, only half listening to Frannie on his cell phone as he plans the hot bath he's going to take, followed by a relaxing evening of _Dragnet_ reruns. 

"Oh crap," she says with that gleeful note in her voice that means bad news for somebody. "Where are you?"

"Uh, I'm on Warren, and I just passed"--Ray squints at the street signs in the failing light--"25th."

"A fight just broke out at a bar on Franklin and 20th. A couple of squad cars are heading over there. Guess the description of the guy who started it?"

"Look, Frannie, I don't have time for guessing games, what--"

"Spiky hair, blond, motorcycle boots, about 5'10"--"

Ray's already hanging up and making an illegal U-turn.

### 

There was a time Ray would have tried to stop a bar fight by himself. Not tonight. He just looks around for Kowalski. The asshole's not hard to find. He's standing under a broken hanging lamp, blood pouring from his nose, laughing. He's laughing and kind of weaving on his feet and a biker the size of a garbage truck is gearing up to break his nose.

Ray sighs and charges over there, shoves his way in front of Kowalski. "Chicago PD!" he yells, probably not loud enough to be heard over the sounds of breaking glass and fists smacking into things, and waves his badge in the biker's face. The guy's too drunk to register it, so Ray ducks out of the way of his swing, steps in, and decks him. He turns to Kowalski.

Who looks delighted. "You just punched him."

"Yeah, so?" Ray tries to get Kowalski's arm around his shoulders so he can drag him the hell out of here. Kowalski is practically dead weight. Ray decides to assume that's the alcohol and not a concussion.

"Fr--Fraser said you couldn't box."

"Yeah, I can't _box_ , that doesn't mean I can't _fight_." Ray shoulders a couple of frat boys out of the way and edges towards the door. "Jesus, Kowalski, where do you think I grew up?"

"2926 North Octavia Avenue," Kowalski recites, only slurring a little. "You went to Our Lady of the--"

"Ugh, stop it, that's creepy." Ray tugs him through the door. 

They pull out in the Riv just as two squad cars drive up in a blaze of sirens and flashers. "What'd you start a fight for, anyway? Risking your life on the _job_ isn't good enough for you, huh? I swear, you're as bad as Fraser."

There's silence for a moment. Ray glances over and Kowalski is honest-to-God _pouting_ , his lower lip sticking out and everything. 

"Well?"

"He insulted Canada," Kowalski says sulkily. "So I kicked over his chair."

Ray groans and passes the box of Kleenex so Kowalski can wipe the blood off his face. "You know what, Kowalski? I should have let you spend the night in holding. Man, and I thought working with _Fraser_ was embarrassing."

Silence. Another glance shows Kowalski squinting at him in befuddlement. "Y'thought working with Fraser was embarrassing?" he asks through a haze of Kleenex. "But he solved cases. And he was pretty."

Ray feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, and possibly also his pancreas, liver, and assorted other internal organs. "You thought Fraser was pretty?" Like Ray didn't already know that. But hey, denial's where he's always been happiest, right?

Kowalski misreads his horror. Well, he reads it with unerring accuracy, which is worse. "Hey, I didn't mean--you're pretty too, Vecchio."

"You're drunk," Ray says flatly.

Kowalski starts to snicker. "Yeah," he gets out between snorts, "but you're pretty, and in the morning I'll be sober, and you'll still be pretty."

"You probably have a concussion, too. Maybe I should take you to the hospital."

"Hey, Winston Churchill said that!" Kowalski protests. "It's a sick burn. That's what they called him, you know. 'Sick Burn' Churchill."

Ray rolls his eyes. "I'm pretty sure they didn't."

"Aha!" Kowalski snaps, pointing two fingers at Ray in his best "gotcha" interrogation style. "You just said it!"

"Said _what?"_

He can hear the grin in Kowalski's voice. "That you're pretty."

This isn't even remotely funny anymore. "Yeah, sure, Kowalski. How's this, if I'm still pretty in the morning we'll talk." Kowalski won't even remember this conversation by morning. He'll be too busy explaining to Welsh how he started a bar fight because someone insulted Canada, because if Frannie recognized that description so will plenty of other cops. Ray can't help shooting Kowalski another look out of the corner of his eye, though. 

Kowalski's smiling--not any of his normal grins, not the fuck-me grin or the I'm-gonna-fuck-you-up grin, but a smile that's not meant for anyone to see. He's watching his hands and smiling to himself. There's a bruise starting to show on his cheekbone. "I'm'nna hold you to that." Kowalski slides down further in the passenger's seat and closes his eyes. "I'm'nna hold you," he slurs.


End file.
